Madder, Maddest
by OnceTwiceTimeThing
Summary: Two of the city's most infamous "power couples" develop a violent rivalry, putting both relationships under pressure and disturbing several alliances in the process. JokerxHarley and HatterxScarecrow, but other cast mainstays include Ivy, The Riddler, and Arnold Wesker. T rating will apply in later chapters.
1. Vegetation Valse

**Characters: Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, Harley Quinn**

**Pairings: Indirect HatterxScarecrow, indirect HarleyxJoker**

**Chapter Rating: K**

**Summary: Harley and Jervis play catch-up. This chapter is sheerly expository, you caught me.**

**Warnings: Brief mention of spork violence**

**WOO ALRIGHT first chapter. I wonder if I'll actually finish this. I never ever finish fics, especially not these days. Anyhoodle, as I said in the description, I'm running with the Animated Series universe because it's the one I know the best, but I've always found that version of Crane was kind of lacking in the personality department (and the design department. Dude looks like a Picasso that got into a fight with a waffle iron) so my interpretation is kind of in universe purgatory. I do like his haughty pomp and explosive temper though. I'm keeping that, at the very least. Beyond that, he shall be tweaked, I think, to be a little more introverted and dry. Not yet sure how much I'll be playing up his crazies. I hesitate to lean on Sale's full-blown schizophrenic version, but we'll see. And of course he's got to be a bit taller. And Jervis shorter. Just a smidgen. I guess we'll just have to see where it goes. ALSO that "Charmine" jab was of course a reference to One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Not totally sure that I see Crane as much of a movie goer, but he's certainty read the book, and moreover I really couldn't resist. Sorry.**

**xxxxx**

The Rec-Room was uncommonly quiet. Peaceful, even. Perhaps too peaceful. It was bland. Sedate. So much so that, if one were to strain, the first few bars of _Charmaine_ almost seemed to carry faintly under the murmured conversations of the other patients, despite any preexisting knowledge that the communal record player had been long since removed, due to gross misuse of the needle once upon a time.

_'That maundering excuse for a song would be right at home here,' _Jonathan thought to himself,_ 'had the asylum staff any sense of humor or leniency.'_ Still, it was no great loss, and he quickly forgot about his condescending private joke, returning his attention to_ Finnegan's Wake_ and shutting out what seemed to be the humble beginnings of an auditory hallucination.

All around the room, the dull buzz of poorly played card games and stale chit-chat not so much reverberated as it did meander. It _pervaded._ Jonathan did his best to ignore this. He burrowed his nose further into his book, still retrospectively scanning the room from memory despite himself. His mind's eye was keen. It was as though the pages of his book were a window, rather than the figurative and literal wall he'd hoped it would be. Especially filtered through his eternally brooding imagination, the "sight" of his concomitants displeased him. This universal Arkham malaise seemed to develop fairly often, and especially lately it was slowly becoming the norm. This observation was vexing, almost downright offensive. Even the most intelligent of his fellow inmates- and some of them were nothing short of certified geniuses- seemed to be in a vegetative haze. They were all stifled, caged birds here, and their collectively manic willfulness was beginning to falter into passivity. This was true of everyone in the room. Everyone except for two, that is, besides himself_._ Somehow, that almost made it worse. It_ would _be_ those_ two, wouldn't it? Always tittering away, giggling, proudly thumbing at the buckles on their respective straight jackets, and gossiping like plump cheerful hens. Not that they weren't among their ward's best and brightest, no, _that_, in fact, was the kicker: despite their boastable, shiny Ivy League doctorates and in one of their cases, revolutionary inventions to call upon, both of these remarkable masterminds were parked contentedly on the couch by the picture window, sniggering and cajoling in all of their precocious glory, being generally vapid. It was enough to make one sick. Then again, Crane wondered frankly if he wasn't just a bitter curmudgeon, easily whipped into seething enmity at the mere notion of giddiness. After all, they were the only ones here who seemed to be having any modicum of fun at all. He peered at them again over the top of his book, still irate at the sound of their laughter. Despite this, he reluctantly admitted to himself that he harbored a great fondness for both of them, particularly Jervis. Jon went on to acknowledged that, for whatever reason, he was feeling more affected that day than usual, and most everything was getting under his skin. He was certain that his animosity would later diminish, at least a little.

But not just yet.

Once again, he retreated to his Joycean shelter and brooded quietly, firmly dismissing all outside distractions, such as the haughty inflections of a dry English wit, or the blaring sound of a Staten Islander's laugh.

"..._which_, might I add, would have cost a small fortune had I paid retail price."

"Good ol' five fingah' discount!" Harley interjected, swinging her legs energetically. All too quickly though, her smile fell and her brows arched downward in scrutiny. "That whatcha got done for?" Jervis shook his head. "Certainly not. What sort of clod do you take me for? Jobs like that are absolute child's play-"

"Well yeah, but then-"

"-in the week that followed, one of my cards fell subject to some malfunctions. A minor defect, but enough to arrest its signal indefinitely. It's corresponding host, of course, snapped to her senses and led the police right to my front door within the day." The Hatter sniffed effetely, lamenting his failure. "A terrible pity. Not to mention unseemly." He ran a hand absently through his hair in a smooth sweep, as if to recover some of his long lost dignity. Harley's face scrunched up sympathetically. "Yeah, no kiddin'. What were ya workin' on t'need so many henchmen anyway? Don't two or three usually do the trick?"

Her companion tented his fingers and furrowed his brow. "Generally yes, but this was something of a special case. I was juggling a number of projects, some of which were not necessarily for my own benefit." His voice trailed off slightly as he searched for the right words to describe his most recent smattering of jobs in better detail, simultaneously hoping to keep the details vague and general. Of course, Harley posed the question that he hoped she would but prayed she wouldn't.

"Then who for? You ain't pickin' up commissions now, are ya?"

"No, it isn't that."

"Didja owe a favah?"

His voice climbed an octave or two. "_Mmmmmmno_, not particularly…" He glanced over his shoulder in faux-coyness. Harley followed his line of vision and smirked knowingly when they aligned. "Oooohh I get it! A'lil sugar for yah sweetheart, eh? That's real cute, Hat." She elbowed him joshingly in the shoulder. "Of sorts," he replied, turning slightly red at her lack of finesse or volume control. "Merely an unbirthday present. Something nice waiting for him when he got back."

"Hm?"

"Were I successful, my next order of business would have been to break him out." Tetch sighed. "Poor Marchy has been cooped up here for months."

"Y'got that right," Quinn said, eyeing Professor Crane conspicuously from across the room. If he noticed her stare or loud commentary, he didn't let on. "Too bad it didn't pan out."

Jervis slouched. "Truly."

Hence followed a beat of silence. Harley settled back into her seat, stretching her legs out of the coffee table before them. She exhaled loudly. "Y'know, it's been ages since puddin's tried t'bust me outa the joint. Good on you Hat, that's a real romantic gesture."

"But it didn't come to pass."

"Yeah well, it's the thought that counts." She clasped his shoulder sociably.

"I suppose," he frowned, unhappy to note that, despite their luck of being placed in neighboring cells, he and Jonathan had been suffering from a definite dry spell. The lanky, scowling professor seemed even gloomier and surlier than usual._ 'He's been trapped here too long,'_ Jervis attested to himself with an internal sigh. _'He's restless.'_ The Hatter felt his good mood diminish. His companion must have noticed this, because her arm found its way around his shoulders, friendly as ever. "Hey, don't sweat it, Jerv. You've only been back a week, you'll think'a somethin'." Her smile extended slightly, she was all but beaming down at him now. He didn't smile back, but the crease in his brow lightened. His expression softened to one of thought. "Jack, is he on the outside?"

Harley looked slightly puzzled at the subject change, or perhaps her confusion stemmed from hearing her beau's little-used given name for the first time in ages. Always formal, that Mr. Tetch.

"Mista J? Nah, he's in solitary confinement. They fit 'im in a straight fer stabbin' a lunch aid in the eye with a spork." Her voice took on a dreamy quality, and she placed a wistful hand over her heart. Jervis's brow quirked slightly. "Charming." He suddenly found himself longing for his pipe.

Harley disregarded his sarcasm. "So what's it to ya anyway?" She asked, still smiling. "You wanna try and pull a breakout or somethin'?"

Tetch tapped his chin. "It's distinctly possible that I do," he replied, staring straight ahead.

Both inmates made a conscious effort to lower their voices, keeping an instinctive eye out for eavesdropping guards.

"So what's the plan?"

"Not sure yet," he said. "I'll need some time."


	2. Gemütlich, Ungemütlich

**Characters: Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch**

**Pairings: HatterxScarecrow,**

**Chapter Rating: K+**

**Summary: Jervis reflects upon the start of his relationship with Crane. The exposition Fairy visited twice in one night!**

**Warnings: Minor gore**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Later in the day, Jervis had retired to his cell. With little more to do, he perched on the edge of his cot and let his legs hang over the side, swaying them slightly. How terribly dull. He uttered a listless breath and glanced around at what he was loath to call his "furnishings." Even with the mental air quotes, that was a generous word to apply here. He had a sterile looking wheeled bed and a small desk bolted to the floor, utterly bare save for one singular book. No chair, no rug, not even so much as a window. Two of his walls were transparent, made entirely of Plexiglas, but they were much sturdier than they appeared. One of them overlooked the hall, lined with security guards and other cells. The second conjoined The Hatter's meager keep to one of his neighbors. It was, of course, no accident that this neighbor was Jonathan Crane.

The diminutive Hatter peered in at him inquisitively, duly reminding himself not to make any sort of advances. The man inside had explicitly asked to be left alone tonight, for unspecified reasons. At the moment, his nose was buried in a book, which looked like an academic tome of some sort. It was probably bursting with elitist scholarly jargon and all manner of abstract postulations that, while hailed as genius today, would be dismissed as utterly defunct within the next decade. Jervis found the entire field of psychology to be fairly inane, though of course, he'd never admit it to Jonathan. _'It's such a self-defeating practice,' _he mused._ 'Not_ _like_ neuroscience.' His gazed fixed once more upon the book, and his eyes narrowed slightly. _'What is the use of a book without pictures or conversation?'_ He couldn't help but to displace his irritation unto the volume in his partner's hands for the preemptive rejection. _'If you so prefer that book's company over mine,' _he thought in the scholar's direction, mustering up some passive-aggression_ 'perhaps you ought to skip all of the to-do and spurn me for it already.' _He sighed again, squinting this time not at Jonathan or his book, but the barrier that separated them. Jervis had begun to hate that wall just the tiniest bit. Its instillation was recent, within the last two or three years, even. Before Arkham had been gentrified (so to speak), there had been rows upon rows of classic steel bars instead. Those were the days when his flirtation with his accomplice had finally come to a head, and as such, the slim spaces between the columns made all the difference.

xxxx

_ "'Ay! Do yerself a favor an' stay in there this time!"_

The thick cell door slammed shut with a resounding crash and a hollow clink. The Mad Hatter, who had been hustled forcefully into his usual accommodations, lay stomach-first on the floor. He groaned in discomfort. The orderlies were powerhouses, and they never seemed to learn that a light jostle by their definition was enough to send a petite little thing like Tetch tumbling to the ground. At least they'd left him to his own devices now. He stayed put for a few moments longer, sheerly exhausted. Yes, good old Hatter had returned to Arkham at last, due in no small part to a run-in with The Bat. It was this chance meeting, of course, that begot his many new bruises, dings, dents, and contusions. He felt an utter wreck, and no doubt looked doubly the part. Though he hated to be detained here, the poor winded fellow took comfort in knowing that he could at least rest and recoup in relative peace. In fact, even the cold institutional linoleum below him was beginning to feel almost inviting...

_"Jervis." _

His eyes shot open at the sound of a familiar voice. Of course, how could he forget what good company he'd be in? The Hatter smiled despite his wounds and surroundings, lurching into a sitting position. He swiveled himself around to face his companion, grinning pathetically. Said grin, though normally wide and impressive, was lopsided, making him look even more battered than when his face was neutral. "Hullo darling," he breathed, sounding a touch loopy.

Jonathan's concerned expression grew somewhat exaggerated as he approached the bars between them and knelt down. He examined his friend more closely and winced internally. Taking a better look had yielded a sickening view of one grotesquely pulpy black eye, countless oozing lacerations, and the sort of rickety posture that suggested a few cracked ribs. At the very least, Crane was jarred. "Good God, what have they done to you?"

Despite being a man of few actions and fewer words in the face of empathy or sentimentality, Jonathan's voice was soft and his body language was open. These minute signs of affection were subtle, subconscious even, but hundreds of unwritten love letters could have been inferred from this rare behavior. Jervis stumbled forward to meet him at their shared barrier.

"It's nothing my dear, really. Nothing a few days' rest can't buff out, anyway."

The former doctor's frown didn't falter. Though he utterly refused to say, he had been consumed by worry at Jervis's absence. When their most recent collaborative job had failed, it was only the lanky mastermind who was immediately captured and arrested. His accomplice had managed to flee, lasting three whole days in hiding before being admitted back into hospice, finally. For reasons pertaining to security and confidentiality, Jonathan was not given any information on his partner's whereabouts. It hardly made a difference, no one knew anything. Whether the illusive Mad Hatter was even still alive had been something of a contested point among the staff. Until he'd made that discovery, the normally callus Crane never would have imagined losing his unofficial lover had such a potential to devastate as it did. Jervis was his only friend and his most reliable crime partner, but their confused, on/off flirtations had seemed one-sided and uncomfortable until just about now. Gut-wrenchingly weak and irksome as it was, their awkward romance was all he'd wanted for the entire weekend. The feeling appeared mutual.

Jervis wrapped his slender hands around two of the bars, and with some effort, he and Jonathan managed to knock their foreheads together, no thanks to their shared line of metal poles or their equally _impressive_ noses. For once, the latter took little pleasure in having his room to himself. He wished passively to fully close the gap between them, but there was absolutely no way in Heaven or Hell that he would try to kiss the other man through the bars, nor would he ever initiate such a gratuitous display of affection in the first place. Though it had crossed his mind, albeit briefly. Instead, he slid his hands, boney and slight as they were, through two the cursed obstacle's many spaces and let them alight upon The Hatter's outer thighs. This was the closest to a hug they were going to get, perhaps the closest to a hug Dr. Crane had ever gotten willingly. If Tetch was surprised by this uncharacteristic tenderness, he scarcely showed it, resting one of his own hands comfortably atop his companion's and sliding the other up to touch his cheek. Certainly tomorrow, they would be forced to discuss the exact terms of their relationship, but for tonight they were as content to let it be.

xxxx

Jervis bat his eyelashes fondly at the memory. There was something terribly romantic about reaching for a loved one through an obstruction like that. Cinematic almost. Of course, that aspect of life had been demolished, and in its place was a sleek slab of Plexiglas. A solid object, almost as bad as a plain old wall, save for the series of tiny holes that allowed for some muffled conversation. But that was _all_ they allowed for. He pouted at the holes, as if he could persuade them to revert. He wanted very much to speak to Jonathan all of a sudden, and he was also certain that, on some level, the opposite was also true: Jonathan wanted to speak to him. If he'd really wanted to be alone, Tetch had reasoned, he would have closed his curtain. He felt himself frowning again. Those discretionary curtains, they were another questionable aspect of Arkham life. For Jonathan and himself they were generally a non-issue, and he was sure that there were other patients who enjoyed their neighbor's company, but for some of the less social cases, this set-up must have been hell. Those little curtains were such meager dividers, but the staff seemed to fear the inmates' potential lack of regular interaction over their now legitimate lack of privacy. It was hard to blame them, he supposed, but he'd be damned if it wasn't an extremely flawed little system. That wasn't really his problem though, as the arrangement had worked out perfectly for him. He stood up and approached the wall.

"Oh, Jonathan," he called out, rapping the barrier lightly with one knuckle. Crane lowered his book slightly and arched a brow. Jervis continued. "Terribly sorry, I know you asked to be left alone tonight, but I was chatting with Harleen this afternoon, and I suspect that one particularity of our conversation might be of interest."


	3. Morning Rain

**Characters: Pamela Isley, Harley Quinn**

**Pairings: None**

**Chapter Rating: T**

**Summary: Ivy is clued into the latest escape scheme**

**Warnings: Language**

**BLAH, sorry this is such a short chapter. The time it took me to update is totally disproportionate, but, y'know, Thanksgiving Break and whatever, I've been shitty and unproductive like a motherfucker. If you're wondering why I've taken upwards of three chapters to set up the stupid plot **

**[whispers] _it's because I'm legitimately making this up as I go along._ I am so sorry. This fic is shaping up to be a hot mess.**

**xxxx**

At precisely 9:15 AM the next day, a small white sun shone starkly over the cold winter scape of Gotham. The few species of birds that hadn't migrated for the winter hopped gingerly about in what was left of the hard packed sullied snow, peeping. Most of the plants were dead, but a good number of handsome evergreens towered stately over the ever cozy, warm, and oh-so accommodating Arkham Asylum. Within this asylum, a number of _colorful_ characters resided. Pamela Isley was currently one of them. She and a dozen of the other female inmates were herded into the showers like bleary, but nonetheless criminally insane, cattle. It was bath time, and they had fifteen minutes. Ivy considered this portion of her day to be one of the worst, easily. Every morning, she found herself stumbling stark naked into a grimy, institutional _hygiene area_ with a group of her equally surly and humiliated peers. For the next quarter of an hour, the only coherent thought that ran through Ivy's mind tended to be a ticker-tape stream of '_Don't touch the walls, don't touch the walls, do _not _touch those disgusting public shower walls,' _ad infinitum_. _They were certainly crawling with all sorts of infectious horrors and mystery germs, and the infamous Poison Ivy was not interested in uncovering their many secrets, especially not when her own flesh would have to serve as guanine pig. Miss Isley was not a squeamish woman, but she greatly valued her health.

She focused intently on maintaining her stiff posture as she stared down at the drain beneath her feet and vigorously lathered her hair. _'Stay in place, don't touch the walls, don't-' _

"Hi, Red, hi!"

The sound of a friendly nuisance approaching shook the groggy botanist from her internal mantra, but her skin's purity remained intact, and the walls remained untouched.

"Hello Harley," she replied, tired. That girl was always brimming with energy, it seemed. That girl never turned off.

"How's it goin'?" She continued to chirp, twisting her respective shower's nozzle with some effort. "Got therapy today?" Her water was scalding, and she didn't flinch.

Neither did Ivy. "As usual," she said, scrubbing her right forearm with care. Her jaw set slightly at the thought of her current psychiatrist, Dr. Leland. Pam harbored a great deal of disdain for her doctor, though this was for no founded reason other than the simple fact that she was, after all, her doctor. Ivy didn't _want_ to be doctored. She didn't want to be _here._ As such, when her ditsy companion discreetly expressed an interest in staging an all-ward break-out and _would you like to come along_, the caged siren's gut reaction was a highly receptive one. However, her better judgment beat her instincts to the punch, as they often did. Harley was truly intelligent under all of the bad slapstick and pancake make-up, but she was first and foremost an indefatigable clod. There was no way she could orchestrate a stunt like that, not on her own at least. God, if what she was doing was looking to recruit Pammie as a helper, forget it. There was no way she'd ever convince the steely Poison Ivy to take on a project that size for the sake of what would largely amount to charity. _Especially_ not on Harley's behalf. Agreeing to _that_ would ensure that Pam would be forced to adopt the project in full, much as a parent would adopt the chores that went along with their irresponsible child's new pet. Nearly everyone on their ward was fond of the chipper little harlequin, but that didn't mean that she could lead them victoriously to freedom like some sort of lunatic Moses. She had no integrity, no decisiveness, no backbone. And her ability to plan ahead was nonexistent. In fact, the more Ivy thought about it, the more concerned she became. She combed the last of her conditioner out of her hair with her fingers.

"No offense Harl, but I find myself doubting your chances at success." _'Can't imagine why that would be,' _she finished in her head.

The blonde looked up from her left foot, which she'd been scouring with a sudsy washcloth, and frowned. "Whaddaya mean?"

Pamela shut her water off and wrapped a towel around her hair in a tight turban, then pulled another about her chest. "Well, think about it. I mean, yeah, Arkham's security isn't exactly Supermax, but it still takes a good week or two of planning to bust out, and that's just for one person. Now imagine all of the planning and detail oriented shit that goes into a clean break. Not to mention the likelihood of rats and stoolies…" She started to walk away, her flip flops squelshing unpleasantly with each step.

"Oh, but Pammie!" the girl called after her, tousling her own hair dry with a towel. "I'm not the brains behind the job, I'm a (whaddayacallit?) an accessory!" Ivy stopped in her tracks. _'This better not mean what I think it means.'_

"Then who is?" She prodded, certain she wouldn't like the answer.

"It's Jervis!" she said with delight, joining her friend and sporting her own towel minidress.

Pam's eyebrows shot up. That changed everything. Of Arkham's many inmates, The Mad Hatter was ironically one of the more competent, despite the odd psychotic break. However, his alliance with Professor Crane had proved to be a boon, and the ordinarily daffy inventor been more grounded than ever. God knew he wasn't the most popular rogue, but that's where Harley came in. She knew how to get the other rogues on their side. If Ivy herself hitched her star to this developing supergroup, imagine where it (and she) would go. Straight out of the bin and into the streets, she wagered, and if that all went according to plans, who knew? The sky was the fucking limit with ties like the ones she was about to make. The risks that went along with a full-scale break out were still in the front of her mind, but the whole concept suddenly seemed more realistic, and in that case, it would be better to be at the helm of the movement.

"So whaadaya say Red? You in?" Harley's face was sunny and brimming with hope. The botanist's thoughtful pout matured into a shrewd smile. "I say we pay your little friend a visit and talk deal," she said. Harley's bright grin waxed, and she gave a little cheer. She could only begin to imagine the overwhelming sort of fun they'd all be having soon enough, roaming the city freely once again. While Pam was suddenly all business, her counterpart could hardly decide who to recruit next.


	4. Fine

**Characters: Jervis Tetch, Harley Quinn, Edward Nigma, Arnold Wesker, Pamela Isley, Jonathan Crane**

**Pairings: None necessarily**

**Chapter Rating: T**

**Summary: What we've got here is a failure to communicate, and I don't like it anymore than you might.**

**Warnings: Language, Brief mental health doo-dads.**

**Whups looks like the cast is expanding. As you might have guessed from previous author's notes, I don't actually know how long this new trio is going to be staying with us, but they'll maintain their relevance for at least one more chapter. Also, despite being listed as a main character, Joker hasn't really made an appearance yet, but I promise you all that I have that much pre-planned. I'm generally about one chapter ahead at all times. In regards to my lack of a solid outline for the narrative, feel free to make suggestions or requests. I'm not at a loss or anything, but I'm not opposed to differing to my small readership. I'd like to keep you guys happy and interested. Constructive criticism is welcome.**

**xxxx**

_Later that afternoon, in the rec-room:_

"No, no, _no!_ Harley, this is not at all what we agreed upon!" The Hatter was halfway between fuming and wailing, exaggeratedly lashing his arms about as he addressed a confused and saddened Harley Quinn. He appeared to be on the brink of a sputtering tantrum, at which the girl cocked her head to the side like a concerned puppy, momentarily forgetting the small group of others she'd enticed into joining her escapade. As such, three inmates hovered uncertainly behind her: an amused looking Edward Nigma, poor nervous Mr. Wesker, and Ivy, who had cupped her head in her hand for all of her bubbling frustration. Settling slightly, Jervis pinched the bridge of his nose in aggravation and impotently began to mumble verses under his breath. Behind the Carrollian babble, a tiny, pure, and glowing voice of reason chided him: _'"__**Keep your temper," said the caterpillar. **__If you lose your wits, then the orderlies will come, and if the orderlies come, then this whole plan—or whatever is left of it—goes up in smoke.' _He nodded to himself quietly, took a deep breath, exhaled, and straightened up again. His face was stern, brows set in a bitchy, no-nonsense line. Harley blinked at him expectantly.

_"Harleen,"_ he forced out, stately. "My _dear._ Obviously, you weren't paying very close attention when we last exchanged words."

"How's that?"

"Well for one thing, our stratagem is hardly ironed out as of yet, and for another, I said we would _entertain_ the _possibility_ that you _might_ involve _one_ friend, _not the entire blasted ward!" _The Mad Hatter's voice dropped to a hiss, but as his volume lowered, his conniption resurfaced at an inverse proportion. He twiddled his fingers spastically as he spoke, desperately trying to contain his frothing anger.

Quinn blinked at him vacantly, worriedly.

His personal fondness of the young girl aside, Tetch inwardly scoffed; for someone with a doctorate in psychology, Harleen Quinzel was _ungodly_ dense. She sniffled in childlike remorse at his outburst. Jervis sighed. His anger cooled back down into throbbing— but contained— irritation.

"Look," he began pointedly. "I-" he sighed again, dragging a palm down the side of his face. "You've completely thrown the outline I developed last night. Who else have you told?"

"Just Ozzy," she offered. "He said 'no' cuz he's on anotha' reformation stint, but he isn't gonna squeal neither." The Hatter nodded and looked to address the small pod of criminals before him. "And what of you three?" He asked. Ivy looked up doubtfully, crossing her arms. "What of us?"

"What am I going to have to do to ensure that the three of you keep to yourselves about this affair?"

He watched helplessly as the two red heads exchanged glances— Pamela looking bored and doubtful, Eddie smirking— and as Wesker shrunk back slightly, nervously running a hand over the bare right wrist where Scarface used to be. This was going to be a hard sell.

"Well I dunno about you two kids," Nigma asserted, nodding at his fellows "but I still want in." Jervis's frown expanded. Of the trio standing before him, he liked Edward the least. "Something _else,"_ he pushed firmly.

The Riddler waggled his finger playfully, "Ah-ah-ah!"-ing as if her were patronizing a small child and not a certified madman. "I'm in or I squeal."

Jervis glared at Harley's apologetically grinning face as if he wanted to tear it off. Hell, he probably did. He had no other option but to accept Eddie's ultimatum, thanks to her.

_"Fine,"_ he spat, still not breaking eye contact with his sheepish and perspiring accomplice. After what seemed far too long a time to Harley, Tetch turned to the rogue on the far right, trying to maintain his dignity in the face of this awful embarrassment. "And Miss Isley. I don't suppose I can persuade you to abandon my project either, can I?"

Ivy glanced contemplatively in Harley's direction. The last thing the botanist wanted to do was get her friend into trouble, but on second thought, the _first_ thing she wanted to do was get out of this dank hellhole and back to the soothing privacy her greenhouse. Here was an opportunity to realize that desire., one that might not come again for a long time. And Harley was already in hot water anyways, one look at Tetch's blazing red face could tell her that much.

Ivy smiled and shook her head slowly. "Sorry Jervis."

He exhaled in defeat. "I thought as much. It seems as though I don't have a choice but to take you up on your interest. But Jonathan isn't going to like this."

Neither his exasperation nor his warning seemed to affect Quinzel, as her characteristic smile sprung to life, and she began to bounce on her heels excitably. "Ooh, thank you, Jervis! Thank you _thank you thank you!"_ "I'm not doing this for you," he said flatly, shooting passive-aggressive daggers at her with his eyes. She paid him no mind. "Ooh! What about Arnie? Can he come too? Pweeeeeeease?" She motioned energetically to the shrinking violet standing between Isley and Nigma, who was quietly praying to melt intangibly into the ether, never to be bothered again.

"As if it makes a difference now." Tetch's body language expressed nothing but a deep desire to pull away from this irksome excuse for a deal. He was not looking forward to bringing this new development up with his partner, but he would much rather be having a spat with Jonathan in his cell than shaking hands with any of the four opportunists surrounding him.

Piping up for the first time all day, Arnold attempted to back pedal. "Uhm, I don't haff-"

"Nonsense!" Cocky Edward Nigma clapped him heartily on the back in what was easily the friendliest gesture the two had ever shared. The poor thing lurched forward, barely catching himself as The Riddler continued. "We can't have any odd men out. That, friends, would be _exclusionary_." He flashed a bright and triumphant smile in the Hatter's direction, to which he received a grimace in response.

_'Just… _go_ with it.'_

Ivy and Eddie looked to one another again, this time both of them smirking mercenarily. The former spoke up, wetting her lips with a flick of her tongue. "So do we have a deal?"

Jervis sniffed and for the final time stretched to his full height, unimpressive as it was, desperately trying to temper the sneer chiseled into his face for etiquette's sake. "Against my better judgment," he said to his smug and smiling company, "I'll be sure to keep you all abreast of the _new_ plan's development." He tipped his hat curtly before turning on his heel. "Gentlemen."

xxxxxxxx

After yet another drudgerous day of useless therapy, mind-bending medications, and the imposition of a ghastly new exercise regiment, a weary ex-professor's greatest desire was to drag his poor withered body to bed. The _last_ thing he damnwell needed was bad news. He hadn't signed on for this sort of bullshit. In fact, he'd been reluctant to acquiesce and join Jervis on his ludicrous mission in the first place, but with all of the pestering and simpering the scruffy little blond had responded with, Jonathan had been worn down into agreeing. It would be good to get out, after all. He'd been here for the better part of four months now, surely he was restless. Crane had to admit, he was surprised at his own complacency. Perhaps what he really needed was to stop waiting for the perfect time to strike and just_ leave_. But he was decidedly averse to participating in a group project, especially not with the likes of Wesker or Nigma. Such irritating men, though for different reasons entirely, and of course Poison Ivy was downright intimidating. In fact, the only earnest comrade Jonathan could point to of the whole lot besides his partner was Quinzel, and she was just a pain in the ass to do business with. Always whining, stumbling, and cracking obnoxious jokes in the most inappropriate situations possible. It would only be worse with the others egging her on as if she were a particularly eager sorority pledge or a trained bear in a tutu.

"Utterly ghastly," he said sourly, shaking his head at the thought. "You'll either have to call the whole thing off or carry on without my company, because I'm having no part in this."

"I'm not leaving without you." Jervis spoke firmly into the little holes in their shared cell wall, staring up at his partner intently. "And I'm not staying here. Neither are you, for that matter. You've been stuck here in No Man's Land for ages, what's the matter with you? You're a clever boy; I know you could have left a dozen times over if you'd so desired."

The man opposite him looked slightly flabbergasted for a moment, but the expression passed quickly. "I've been… _tired,"_ he said finally.

Jervis folded his arms over his chest. "It's that damn medication they've put you on. I told you this would happen Jonathan, I _told_ you not to let them-"

"You know I didn't have a choice," Crane snapped back.

"Why don't you just tongue them like the rest of us?"

"I'm sick of all the fuss," he admitted harshly, actively trying not to shout. His volume wavered slightly anyway. "And I'm sick of withdrawals." He took a few unsteady, defensive steps backwards, still scowling.

"Now, don't tell me you're giving up," the Hatter chided, still relatively calm, despite the shock of panic that flashed in his chest.

_"No,"_ came a terse reply. "I'm not-" he faltered slightly, frustrated. He argued with himself internally, as evidenced by the look on his gaunt face. Finally, he forced himself back to their conversation. "—I told you, I'm very tired."

His companion looked up at him in concern, pressing a few fingers against the glass. "My God, we've really got to get you out of here."

Jonathan only maintained his petulant frown.

"This place is really wearing you down," he continued, speaking casually as if he were musing on a local sports team's recent failures. Jonathan still said nothing. He didn't like this conversation.

"Please come with me."

The drained academic glared at him, backed into a logical corner. After a long pause, he huffed out one word: _"Fine." _


	5. With The Fishes

**Characters: Jervis Tetch, Jonathan Crane, Harley Quinn, Pamela Isley, Edward Nigma, Arnold Wesker, assorted others**

**Pairings: Minor HatterXScarecorw, indirect HarleyxJoker, and I guess some IvyxRiddler UST if you squint**

**Chapter Rating: T**

**Summary: Our five anti-heroes ruminate on their imminent escape and what they'll do when they're finally free.**

**Warnings: Language, Crude/Adult Humor, Slightly Graphic Description of Nausea (if that's even worth warning you about) **

**Sooo yes so far so good. I honestly can't believe I've been updating this sucker regularly. AND the inner-monologue train just keeps on chuggin' doesn't it? Things will happen soon. I promise, they will. Beyond that, I'm starting to think that I'll be writing a lot more fannon friendships and dynamics than I'd originally intended. That is, if this little trio of hanger-ons sticks around for much longer. I can't imagine letting them drop off the end of the story though.**

**xxxx**

Sooner than what seemed realistic, the time of reckoning had arrived, and Jervis, utterly beaten by the stress of bringing it about, was doing all within his power to avoid face-planting into his tray of standard institutional mush. Why he'd even bothered to gather the "food" at all was beyond him, he had no intention of consuming it. He refused to look directly at it, lest his gorges rise.

Steadfast as he was, The Mad Hatter was, in converse, terribly finicky. That isn't to say that his diet of choice was a healthy one, on the contrary, he sustained himself most commonly on high-end sweets and aromatic teas, but when he was in Arkham, he could scarcely bring himself to eat at all. Sometimes there was fresh fruit, and often there were breakfast potatoes. He would eat those, generally. Not today, though. He'd barely ingested a forkful all week, and as such, he was beginning to feel the sting of a rebelling body. The questionable smells wafting around the cafeteria ultimately proved to be too much for the weakened Hatter, and his normally rosy cheeks went as white as a rabbit's fur. An unwelcome surplus of saliva pooled in the back of his throat, the way that it would in times of sudden nausea. He pushed his tray aside and put his head down, waiting impatiently for the customary dry-heaving to begin so he could jolly well move on to more important things, namely waiting for that same dry-heaving to end. He knew he wouldn't actually wretch, that wasn't how this worked. He would only gag helplessly for a minute or two before recovering and carrying on with his day as if it hadn't happened. He knew that he was the only one to blame for this problem, that the malnutrition was self-induced, but he didn't rightly care. The food was awful. He out and out refused to touch it, and at the moment, he was much too unhappy to eat anyways. As his quiet sputtering ebbed, Jervis was dimly and thankfully aware of a slim hand ghosting the length of his back in a feeble attempt to soothe. It was more a gesture of patient solidarity than anything, but welcome despite its futility. When he recouped, the enfeebled Hatter flicked a few errant tears away and thanked his partner, who didn't even have a tray. Unlike Tetch, he paid no mind to the hollow feeling in his guts.

Even though their long-awaited escape was set a mere three days away, Jonathan was surprisingly undaunted. It wasn't confidence or excitement that stood in place of trepidation; it was a simple nothing, as if he didn't register the imminent change at all. The professor would have felt puzzled by it if he wasn't so busy feeling neutral. So he only _thought_ puzzled instead, which was a good enough substitute. But thinking wouldn't satisfactorily replace some other feelings, like thrills or love or self-satisfaction. In the weeks that had recently slipped by, he wondered passively where those affectations went. He was sure he would have been concerned about it, if he could manage to muster up such a reaction. He knew exactly what was happening, but he didn't like to admit it. He knew that his better half could see it too. That's why they were leaving.

Crane watched with muted sympathy as The Hatter coughed away the last specks of his affliction.

"Are we alright Jervis?"

"Yes," he choked out unsteadily, one hand pressed cautiously against the base of his neck. "We most certainly are."

The rest of the mess hall was abuzz with nothing in particular. Two Face could be seen in a far corner, brooding in front of a pile of steaming mush on a plate and probably arguing with his repressed alter-ego. Also kept to himself was The Penguin, or rather, the _former_ Penguin, but God knew how long that would last. He was on the other end of the room, jabbing indignantly at his gruel with a spoon like a squeamish surgeon. Many of the lower risk patients were chatting happily amongst themselves, and The Joker was still in solitary, so despite being close to full capacity, the room's general energy was low. Unsurprisingly, Harley and Ivy were sitting side by side, laughing and chatting sociably over cups of some doubtlessly fermented "orange drink." Lately, they'd also fallen into the habit of spending time with Nigma and Wesker, a seemingly arbitrary development that made Jervis cringe.

God, this was really happening.

He made a mental note never to trust Harley with potentially compromising information ever again.

"And so I'm there with my shoes in'a plastic bag in one hand an' this chump's fuggin' shotgun in the other—_guys! _Lissin, lissin!— so I cock it an' I'm like: 'Y'can either let me an' my pal here off the hook, or the warden's wife won't be the only thing you'll be sleepin' with, capiche?' And get this: guy is so messed, he actually _backs off the bridge_ and falls four stories down inta the bay. I didn't have to lift a gawddamn finger!"

Ivy smiled and rolled her eyes at her friend's prideful beaming. "You told that one already Harl," she said in exaggerated boredom.

"Well I thought it was superb," The Riddler interjected, matching Harley's grin. "Very clever of you to steal his key ring like that."

"Gee, thanks Ed! Say, maybe if our little you-know-what goes off, we can team up sometime!"

And perhaps she would slowly build a small army of snarky gingers in green suits, and all would be right with the world. Many of her good friends wore green, she suddenly mused. Harley liked it that way. She liked the cohesion.

As the two continued to cajole one another (with Ivy playing their long suffering babysitter) Arnold wondered nervously if Miss Quinzel ought to be saying "you-know-what" so loudly. He squeezed his right wrist habitually, wondering what Scarface would say to silence a blabbermouth. Despite his very literal close connection to the puppet, The Ventriloquist was ashamed to admit to himself that he could not contrive a well-characterized response on his own. Although the fact was often under scrutiny, Wesker was telling the truth when he said that he had no idea what went on in his puppet's "mind."

Then, another thought crossed his mind: in this situation, what would _Arnold Wesker_ say? He glanced nervously around the room, as if one of the other Arkhamites might pass him an answer etched on a shining golden scroll.

Alas, no one did. He would have to decide for himself.

For once, his second personality was not there to scold him for contemplating such things, but on further thought, he considered it a moot point. Arnold Wesker would not say anything. That was not the sort of thing that Arnold Wesker would do. Scarface would get angry at the girl. He would probably threaten her. Arnold Wesker didn't like to do things like that. And so he continued to do what Arnold Wesker did best: he sat quietly, stately, almost, but behind his glasses, his small eyes shone with anticipation. _'Three days,'_ he thought eagerly. In three days he could go home, he could make a new puppet, and Scarface could take it from there.

Sitting beside him, the ever boffo Riddler was thinking more ambitious thoughts. His smile flashed confidently as he laughed along with his female consorts. One of them was obviously enjoying herself more than the other, but Eddie didn't mind. Little Pammie could spit out whatever aspersions she wanted. She could call him "patriarchal pig" or "obsessive dingbat" until she was blue in the face, he honestly didn't care. He was gonna ride this idiotcoaster right out of the bin, yes sirree bob, and when he hit the streets, he was going to hit them _hard._ Having been behind bars for so long, he had had time in abundance, and as such, a wonderful little stockpile of new riddles and traps and all manner of subterfuge stored in that precious braincase of his. He was going to _own_ baby, _big time. _

Bored with the happy expression plastered across Nigma's square-jawed visage, venomous Pamela Isley devised a quick insult. It didn't matter that if it was arbitrary, or even inaccurate.

"Hold on a minute Eddie," she said, lifting a finger to silence him. Under the naive impression that she had something civil to say, he obeyed. "Sorry, I got distracted by your nose-hair. It's just that it's gotten so long that it's starting to look like a Hitler mustache."

Eddie raised an irked and outwardly unimpressed eyebrow. _'Oooh, classy.'_

In one swift motion, he rolled his shoulders, folded his hands on the table, and fit his face with the most winning smile possible. "Blow me," he said brightly.

"The only part of you that's ever been blown is your ego, because it's obviously made of glass."

Eddie let out a hissing giggle at her quip. "You really are a charmer Miss Isley. It's no wonder you have to rely so heavily on those pheromones of yours."

She turned to Harley with a frown. "Can I hit him?"

Quinn simply shrugged and smiled goofily. The Riddler let loose a full-throated laugh in response, ignorant to the fact that Pam had taken it upon herself to hock a well-aimed wad of spit into his drink while he was distracted. She and her consort exchanged a quick smirk before the blonde excused herself, beckoning the tight-lipped Ventriloquist to go with her. He rose from his place stiffly and scurried after her, grateful that he wouldn't have to stay to find out what sort of toxins could be found in Poison Ivy's spittle or what it would do to Mr. Nigma.

"Where are we going?" He asked quietly, shadowing his much more bombastic company. "The rec-room," she piped, depositing her refuse into a garbage can. She did her best to ignore the wary orderlies eyeing her. "We got group therapy in half'a hour, but until then we can play ping pong or watch TV or somethin'. It'll be fun!" She took one last look around the cafeteria, pleased to see all of her friends in one place, despite the obvious misfortune of their detainment. Roxie Rocket was firing spitballs at the back of Oswald's head, daring him to react as he stifled his swiftly developing rage. Killer Croc was gnawing on the side of his table with gusto. Shifting her vision slightly, Harley was amused to note that Edward had started to scratch at the side of his face and was wearing a concerned expression. A few tables down from there, Professor Crane was running a hand through his partner's hair, imparting some sort of hushed advice. Much as she had all but forgotten that Mr. Wesker was waiting for her, Harley failed to notice the look of sheer discontent on Jervis's round face.

At the sight of this tenderness, the girl cocked her head to one side and pouted. She wondered with a lonely sigh what her puddin' was up to just then, and her strong anticipation for the nearing jailbreak suddenly failed her.


	6. Enter The Joker

**Characters: The Joker, Victor Fries, Oswald Cobblepot**

**Pairings: Indirect HarleyxJoker**

**Chapter Rating: T**

**Summary: The Joker at long last emerges from solitary confinement, and he's in for a nasty surprise. **

**Warnings: Language, including slurs**

**WOW HI NOT DEAD. Sorry this update took so long, I won't bore you with excuses. I feel bad for making my lovely (albeit teensy) readership wait around, so tonight's gonna be a double update kind of night. Beyond that, Joker's finally in the game, and not a moment too soon. It was beginning to feel like false advertising, having him listed as a headlining character like that. Sorry to admit, he's gonna slip back into the ether for another few chapters, but when he comes back, he'll stay back. I. Swear. **

**Anyhoodle, enjoy!**

**xxxxx**

Unfortunately, the sun gladly rose over Arkham on January the Twenty-Third, beaming as if its arrival didn't mark the dawn of a new, grim, and aggravating era at the hospital. Yes, the days of semi-productive group therapy sessions and appropriate usage of rubber bands were over until further notice. The Joker was out of solitary, and he wanted the world to know it. At the very least, his fellow prisoners were painfully aware of the fact when he burst gleefully into the mess hall, trailed by a small troupe of guards and orderlies.

The Clown Prince made a singular effort to greet each of his hospitalmates. Every. Single. One.

Loudly.

"Hia kids! Daddy's home!"

He strut in like he owned the place, and most of the diners around him averted their eyes.

The clown bopped from table to table, person to person: victims who's gut reactions ranged from very annoyed to moderately terrified.

He often greeted with his hands as well, clapping backs a little too firmly and occasionally throwing things. His shadowing council of babysitters knew it was no use trying to correct this behavior.

"'Morning Snowmieser!"

He brayed at Victor Fries and was promptly ignored. The Joker then pouted in mock disappointment, as if he had expected a different response. "Aw now, don't give me that cold shoulder, Vic. We all know deep down your just as lonely and attention starved as Pengy over here. Speaking of-" he took a smooth, exaggerated sidestep in The Penguin's direction. "If it isn't my favorite disco duck! What's new blubber thighs? Getting good altitude with that Rocket chick?"

Oswald's face tightened into a puckered sneer, and he tried to wave the chalk faced burden away with a flick of his thick wrist. "Egress, you discommoding dunce."

Joker scrunched up his nose. "Sheesh Ozzy, don't such a prig." He glanced around the dining commons with wild, excitable eyes, wetting his lips and clasping his hands together. "Now where's The Great Wesker? I owe him a _special candygram."_ His tone darkened slightly, seemingly out of nowhere, but his smile only expanded. The attendants semi-circling him exchanged concerned looks. Somehow, Napier must have identified the "anonymous informant" who snitched about the spork-enabled "tunnel to freedom" in his cell. And that was bad. Bad for Arnold at the very least, but also a burden to the staff. At best, it meant extra vigilance and pains taken when it came to Wesker and the clown, but at worst, it meant liability and a dead body to account for. The hospital simply could not afford another incident. Before one of the orderlies could address the issue, however, Oswald did it for them.

"I recommend you reserve your energy. Mr. Wesker escaped this weekend." He didn't bother to include any more information on the subject, unable to bear the notion of fielding the hissy fit that would surely ensue, but the squat little aristocrat hummed merrily to himself, knowing that would find out soon enough.

_'He'll be the staff's problem then,' _he thought, stirring his oatmeal cantankerously. _'Not mine.'_

The Joker's face lightened into one of vague disappointment. "Oh. Well that's too bad. But hey, I suppose it can wait."

Mr. Napier did not give off the impression of being a patient man, but in actuality, patience was one of his few virtues, if it could even be referred to as such. In his case, it was less a sign of good character, and more of a predatory feature. His mouth cracked once more into a ghoulish grin, and he waltzed off, waving his arm in vigorous greeting.

"Hey _Harv!_ How's it goin' Left Brain Boy, you old bastard!"

Dent grimaced and stared deeply into his waffle, while The Joker's dancing orderly band rushed after their charge like a platoon of giddy solders. Following a moment of well-earned silence, Victor turned to his reluctant companion and smoothed a crease in his specially made thermal Arkham uniform.

"How long do you suppose it will take?" His voice was steely, almost metallic even without his self-designed suit. Perhaps it was for this reason that his question seemed more like a statement than anything.

Cobblepot sighed and shoved his tray to the side in defeat. After a lifetime of almas caviar and fine wine, he was another Arkhamite who simply couldn't hack it at mealtime. "I can't imagine more than a day or so," he said. "For the love of God, let's hope we're not in the room to see it."

xxxx

_Those bastards! _

Joker let out another enraged cry and slammed the sole of his right wingtip into the nearest wall. The result was little more than a cheap squeak and echo, which only made matters worse. His temper frothed and his straight jacket fucking itched.

_That pack of hellbound cocksuckers! _

He attacked the wall again, this time throwing his whole body into the blow, cracking his shoulder in the process.

With a grunt, Napier stumbled backwards onto his cot, still seething impotently. His arm felt horribly jammed now, but of course, he couldn't run a rain check or anything, being trapped in an endless self-embrace, courtesy of Arkham staff.

Thank God the cell across the way was empty. The manic jester liked to seem aloof and above it all, nay, he _had_ to. It was part of his shtick, his image! And The Joker was an icon, after all. He couldn't allow a competitor see him like this. Even when he was unhinged, it was usually to the tune of manic glee, not unexpendable, restrained rage. He must have looked like a sour child just then, gnashing his teeth like a caged animal. After not too long a time, Joker's mind turned back to the current objects of his animosity.

A plagiarist, a stool pigeon, two fags, a slut, and _Harley._ God, if there was ever a fucking joke, that was it.

He could see them so clearly in his mind, bumbling like Keystone Cops and bickering like The Honeymooners. Not a one of them would know what to do with their freedom once they got it. Not a one of them would use it properly. He'd have laughed at the very notion of it if it wasn't so insulting.

They snubbed him, the whole ugly pack of 'em. _Harley_ snubbed him, of all people! That was the biggest shock of the entire affair, which was a pretty prize to take, considering the fierce competition.

He couldn't believe it still. It was downright unfeasible. The clown's own girlfriend: his most loyal henchwench and bonafide co-dependent escaped not with her so often adulated hubby, but instead with the specky shrimp who sold him down the river, effectively trouncing his otherwise flawless escape plan. She ought to be walloping that creepo into a bloody mash, not fucking _consorting_ with him. And that no account hippie Isley had helped her do it too._ And_ The Joker's much-hated imitator, the obviously _green_ _with envy_ Edward Nigma. And "Hat Guy," the stuffed shirt dandy that he was. And that funereal sourpuss Scarecrow. The whole bunch of them were completely deplorable in their own special ways.

Joker stood up again and began to pace, already preparing to exact his revenge. His first order of business, of course, was busting out, and lucky, now was a good time to do it too. With the fucking _Rat Pack_ newly on the loose, much of Arkham's staff was tied up trying to poach their asses and haul them back to their cells. They'd have their hands full, who would notice if one little patient slipped out under the cover of the night?

But there was, of course, a trail of whitecoats at Joker's own heels, since he was newly a social patient and oh-so very dangerous to boot. The thought of his own acclaim lightened his mood, albeit slightly.

Yes. The Joker was scary. He was very scary, and the fact that he knew his own power made him all the worse to his targets and opponents. He was also a wily, clever little shit if ever there was one. And so deliciously spiteful too, like no other. Oh, his contemporaries were criminals sure, but The Joker was a stone cold villain. He made no bones about his utter depravity either. There was something distinctly _not right_ with each of the Gotham Rogues, true, but there was something _even less right_ about Joker in particular, and he capitalized on it like no one's business. The maniac never really could figure why he differed from the others this way, but there was no point in getting hung up on silly unanswerable questions, especially not of the psychobabble variety. What mattered was his presence in the city's criminal underbelly, his domain. Imprisoned or not, his influence wasn't going away. All he had to do was get back out and take advantage of it.

Feeling his anger truly subside, Joker's pacing became slower and more deliberate.

There was really

truly

No need to be upset. In fact, what was he thinking getting so worked up like that?

He probably wasn't thinking at all, actually. That kind of behavior was not necessary, he knew. He'd deal with the situation _properly,_ it'd be no sweat really. Hell, it might even be

_fun._


	7. Hello, Goodbye Part I: Morning

**Characters: Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, Edward Nigma, Dr. Joan Leland, Arnold Wesker, Dr. Bartholomew **

**Pairings: Indirect HatterxScarecrow**

**Chapter Rating: K+**

**Summary: It's The Big Day.**

**Warnings: Language**

**Aaaand we're back to your regularly scheduled programming. This is a pretty short one, I imagine the next one will be too, at the very least. But what that means is that I'll probably have it drafted by tomorrow, and uploaded within the week. So that's a nice thing. **

**xxxxx**

The day of the breakout, January Seventeenth, was essentially a day like any other. The deep-winter air that circulated in the halls was sharp and dry and offensive, but the air in each of the heated cells made for a stiflingly thick, musty counterpart. The orderlies and security personnel were no less terse than usual, the white linoleum below was dirty and unforgiving, and of course breakfast stank to high heaven. Life at the mental hospital was, as usual, thoroughly unpleasant. Unpleasant enough to kill just about anyone's spirit really. Jonathan, in fact, had woken up even more disaffected than was the new norm, and Jervis was just plain tired—the "just" stood for _just_ barely lucid and un_just_ifiably irate. He spent the majority of his morning borderline-yelling at his partner to "step lively" _this_ and "watch where you're going" _that_ as they made their way to the showers, with Crane uncharacteristically passive to the stream of abrasive commands that would normally rile him into a state of calculated defiance. He halfheartedly obeyed every bark, only motivated by his innate and near constant desire for quiet. Weary and feckless, the ex-doctor thought it a wonder that his long ungainly legs could even carry him at all. He didn't really feel fit for the escape today.

As the duo entered the washroom, they encountered a perturbed looking Edward Nigma. His face was adorned with many small bandages, and the patches of flesh left uncovered looked irritated. Bathed in hospital dust and early morning light, Eddie stared rigidly at the doorframe, immobile, and when an orderly came by to coax him through, his stiffness soon translated into bullheaded defiance. The couple didn't stick around to watch, but as they passed, they could both hear his indignant hollering fade back down the hall as he was probably being carried away.

Showering at Arkham was annoying and embarrassingly public, but it was quick, and then it was over. Next came mealtime, which was slower and more annoying. Moody as he was, Jervis did not at all care when he saw Pam embracing her best friend sororally, rubbing her back as she cried openly into the normally harsh woman's shoulder. In fact, he was even a little bit annoyed by the whole display, grinding his teeth as one of the kinder guards approached them, Ivy softly explaining Harley's ailment until he was satisfied that Dr. Bartholomew needn't be involved. Despite her very genuine care-taking, whatever Isley had just said was probably a lie.

After mealtime came the rest of the day's activities. It was Saturday, which tended to be very therapy-heavy. For Jervis and Jonathan, couple's therapy was first. Jonathan especially hated couple's therapy, but if they were going to enjoy the benefits of conjoined cells and conjugal visits, he had no choice but to behave. It hardly seemed worth it though, as of late.

There weren't many other couples at Arkham that he could think of beyond Harley and The Joker. How interesting _their_ sessions must have been.

xxxx

"Alright boys, we've got about fifteen minutes left. Is there anything else important on your minds?"

Dr. Leland's eyes gleamed bright and alert from behind her clipboard. With ease, she'd managed to keep a calm and interested affect about her, but simmering just below the surface was stiff irritation. Crane and Tetch were more closed off than usual, which was saying something. Fortunately, the days of their outright and united opposition had ended, but even though their scheming and taunting had become a thing of the past, the pair seemed to have agreed that they would only use these sessions to humor their doctors, nothing more, nothing less. But today seemed different. This level of standoffishness wasn't presented in the aloof fashion that had become customary, they seemed genuinely quiet. It was somewhat unsettling.

The men on the couch across the way exchanged a brief, tired glance before turning back.

"Not really," the slimmer one had said. He displayed the same temperate characteristics that his _licensed_ therapist did, as if to say "That's right Joanie, I can put on my doctor face _too."_ They knew all the same tricks, and some days, silent wars ensued. Seemingly meaningless gestures and amicable, non-committal phrases were fried back and forth like cannonballs, putting their respective training to the test. They were both very good, and very often, their one-upping went right over Jervis's delusional little head. Today had been a light day though.

Leland smiled, knowing not to push them.

"Alright. In that case, why don't we discuss next week's schedule?"

The two exchanged another subtle, sidelong glance.

In the next room, Arnold Wesker's session had just gotten underway, and he was in good spirits, if not downright chipper.

The Ventriloquist was, both in stature and in presence, a small man. He was often ridged with nerves, and he seemed to avoid speaking at all costs, as if he feared he might be punished for the perceived outburst. He rarely seemed happy, and when he did, it was still as subtle an expression as one might expect. Still, there was something about seeing a skittish fellow like Arnold smile that really lit the room up.

It had always been a wonder to his doctors that such a clement man was so inclined towards crime, but then again, there was truth in that hackney turn-o'-phrase: _it's always the quiet ones._ But he was making progress. He seemed capable of recovery, especially as of late.

"You seem well today," his doctor had noted, watching as small and bespeckled Mr. Wesker settled into his usual seat.

"Oh yes," the mousey patient confirmed, smiling demurely at Bartholomew's flabby face. The friendly gesture was returned in his usual grandfatherly way.

"Well that's wonderful Arnold. How is the new medication treating you?"

"Fine sir."

Bartholomew adjusted his glasses and jotted a note down in his book. Wesker had to be broken of this 'sir' habit. It only reinforced the servile behavior that made it so easy for Scarface to resurface and overpower him. It also pointed to a very formal attitude that would make the intimacy of therapy difficult. You don't spill your soul out for a "sir" to see, you reveal yourself to a friend or a parental figure. For the therapy to work, Dr. Bartholomew had to stop being "sir."

The psychiatrist glanced up from his notes, still maintaining the sweet and caring aura that had become his shtick. "Any particular reason you're feeling so good?"

Still light in expression, Arnold shook his head and shrugged. He wrung at his right wrist, but this was normal behavior for him, and his doctors had grown accustomed to it.

"That's perfectly fine too. I'm glad to see you so cheerful Arnold. Now then, is there anything you'd especially like to discuss with me today?"

"Nothing comes to mind sir."

Despite his exterior geniality, Bartholomew was frowning on the inside. His patient was still closed off, still guarded, still _formal_. Wesker had been in and out of Arkham for years, and not once did he show signs of loosening up. It was enough to drive a man to drink. Dr. Bartholomew was the goddamn Grand Poobah of "hug therapy" and mollycoddling. The softest of the soft. Arkham's leading pioneer in emotional warm milk and proverbial security blankets. If _he_ couldn't get Wesker's defenses down, who in the whole of that godforsaken asylum's staff catalog could?

No one, that's who. Arnold Wesker was the most docile man in the world, and an entire team of high-profile doctors couldn't manage to crack him. What a joke.

"That's fine, Arnold, just fine. I suppose we'll pick up where we left off on Thursday." He peeked at an earlier page in his book. "We were… discussing the weather. Were we not?" The doctor tried not to grit his teeth.

"Uh-uh. That's right."

'_…I'm going for it.'_

"Arnold," the doctor began, coughing into a closed fist. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather discuss, say, your interests with me today? Perhaps puppetry? I hear you're quite the whiz."

He knew he shouldn't try to steer the session like that, but he running out of ideas. It had been _years._

The puppeteer shifted uncomfortably and his smile disappeared. "Uhm, no. I think I'd prefer to discuss the weather again."

The old man forced another smile. "That's fine too." Lately, he seemed to spit that phrase out like a printer spat out receipts. He spat out "that's fine too"s like it was his job. Oh wait-!

It was.

Dr. Bartholomew was naive. He thought his patient's good mood would make him more receptive. It was going to be another long session with the sweet, polite, and damnable Mr. Arnold Wesker.


End file.
